“Who tells you these things?” I asked. “Is this information dispersed telepathically to all you freaks? Do the thoughts just appear in your head with a little purple signature from Dawn at the Harvard admissions office?”
“Something like that,” Hannah said, then went back to smacking her head on the table.
I didn’t and don’t care about well-roundedness, but something about writing down Dad’s story two nights ago got to me. The work felt almost sacred, like one still, perfect instant of clarity and purpose—jumping from a cliff into the turquoise water of Torch Lake or the icy blue of Lake Michigan—that stretched across the many silent hours I spent hunched over the kitchen table.
Just like the memory or hallucination or whatever that spurred it, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about the story that spilled out of me.
Ms. deGeest pauses in front of Stephen and me, first setting our stories facedown on the table.
“Great work on your first assignments,” she says. “I was truly impressed. There’s a lot of potential in this room, and it was evident you put a lot of thought into these flash fiction pieces. These grades, however, won’t be counted toward your final grade. This is merely a marker for you, so you have an idea of what to expect from me as a teacher and what I expect from you in order to earn an A.”
She’s still rambling about work ethic and progress and the importance of honest criticism when I catch Stephen positively beaming at the red and emphatically circled B+ on the front of his story. I slide my own story off the table.
My heart plummets into my stomach at the sight of the D+ scrawled over the entire first paragraph. I fight back tears and then feel so embarrassed that I have to fight back a second wave and basically spend the rest of class as an emotional pendulum swinging between humiliation and anger. As soon as the bell rings, I break for the door and hurry to my locker.
I’ve never been this upset by a grade. It’s possible I’ve never been upset by any grade, period. I’ve known all along that I want to travel after graduation, then come back to Five Fingers, like all Jacks do, and a plan like that limits my college options to approximately zero.
But this isn’t about college apps or career paths.
I loved that story. And either I butchered it or Ms. deGeest flat out hated it. Either way, it feels like I’m failing Dad—desecrating the only part of him I have left. That I’m not worthy of that memory, or hallucination, in which he held my hand in his and I felt his skin and breath and love.
“Hi,” Hannah chirps, appearing beside me in a blur of blond.
“Hi.” I don’t look up from riffling through my locker for my backpack.
“What’s wrong?”
“Bad grade.”
Her eyebrows pucker together. “I’m so sorry, June.” After a second, she shakes her head. “Wait, why do you care?”
“I don’t wanna talk about it.”
She lifts her hands, one of which is clutching the handle of her violin case. “Fine, totally understandable.”
“Thanks.”
She studies me. “You know what you need?”
“Bourbon.”
“Girls’ Night.”
“Hallelujah.”
“Yes?” she confirms.
“Very yes.”
“Girls’ Night it is.”
• • •
Except it’s not. At least not for long.
It’s Girls’ Night when we get to Hannah’s neighborhood, a series of rustic lodges surrounded by a gorgeous mix of evergreen, and eat spaghetti with Mrs. Kuiper, who, rather than returning to “Miss Sowerbutts” kept her married name even after Hannah’s dad left her for his pregnant mistress. It’s Girls’ Night when Han and I lie on our stomachs, flipping through the newest Rookie yearbook and laughing over flirting tips in her mom’s old magazines (“Wear your underwear as a hair band!” “Be entirely naked!”).
It’s even Girls’ Night on the drive to the movie theater and the blissfully ignorant walk from the parking lot to the lobby.
But that’s where Girls’ Night ends: in the popcorn-scented lobby of the Cineplex, with Nate Baars shouting, “Laaaaaaadies!” into his cupped hands and Saul standing next to him, looking a little horrified and a little amused.
At that point, Girls’ Night crashes headlong into a four-way not-a-date in which no two people are in agreement over which couple they’re not part of.
I look to Hannah accusatorily. Her face is pale, eyes wide as she waves back to Nate sheepishly.
“Are you serious, Hannah?” I demand.
Her eyes dart to mine, and she mumbles like a ventriloquist, “I swear I had no idea. Nate and I were texting, and—”
“Since when do you and Nate Baars text?”
“I told him we were going to the movies. He said, See you there, but I thought he was kidding!”
“Why?” I hiss. “Why would you think that was a joke?”
“I don’t know—he used a winky face!” she whispers, teeth still gritted. “What do we do?”
“Leave?” Even as I say it, an itch of curiosity coils under my breastbone.
“Are you kidding?” she cries. “That’s so awkward! They think we’re meeting them here. Intentionally. We can’t leave.”
As I glance across the lobby toward Saul, that curiosity spirals up through me like a charmed snake. It’s just a movie. Saul and I won’t talk; we’ll sit in silence and then part ways.
“You owe me,” I say under my breath, then start across the planet-spangled carpet toward the boys.
“Add it to my tab,” she says.
“Finally,” Nate says when we reach them. He seems completely unconcerned about the forty-five seconds Hannah and I spent whisper-arguing on the far side of the lobby, and he folds over each of us in a hug. His arms are particularly linger-y with Hannah, but she must be in a good mood, because she doesn’t shake him off. “Glad you girls could make it.”
To our own Girls’ Night? Same.
“Hi, Nate,” I manage, which is a downright cheery greeting compared to Saul’s single nod toward us. “Saul,” I say in return. “My mortal enemy, good to see you in fine health. Frankly, I thought my voodoo doll would’ve been more effective.”
He smiles, and I anticipate then physically feel the cusp of his gritty laugh rise then slip back down his throat, and a tiny and hopefully nonessential piece of my heart flakes off.
Nate laugh-barks. “You’re so freakin’ weird, O’Donnell. Love it.”
I shoot Hannah a stare like a steak knife. “What can I say? I’m not like other girls. I’ve literally never eaten a salad in my life.”
This time The Laugh surfaces, and my face heats. I can’t look at Saul, so I look at Nate, who’s nodding. “Really? Wild.”
Hannah gifts him with an encouraging smile and saddles me with a pleading look.
Okay, technically speaking, Nate Baars is hot. He’s an olive-skinned, espresso-haired stack of muscle who surfs in summer, snowboards in winter, and rock climbs year-round. But at this point, my brain replaces the sight of him with a giant, slobbering golden retriever.
“I want to be drunk,” I accidentally say aloud to myself.
“Anyway,” Hannah interrupts before this not-date can get any worse. “What are we seeing?”
Saul juts his chin toward the banner hanging over us. “The Axe Murderer on Thirteenth Street.” He could not look any smugger that this is his first contribution to our conversation. I try to imagine that he has baby-soft hands and smells like Axe Body Spray and that his favorite food is mayonnaise, because otherwise he’s so, so charming to me right now I want to die.
“Great,” I say, heading to the counter. “Can’t wait.”
“Don’t have to.” Nate brandishes a strand of four red tickets. “You think we gentlemen would let you girls buy your own tickets?
”
Saul stares at the floor, and I know he did not pay for a single one of those tickets.
“Great,” Hannah says quietly, reverting to the timidity of the first hour and a half we spent with Saul at the carnival.
We file into the theater along the back row. Somehow Nate manages to corral Hannah between him and Saul, making the final seating arrangement Nate, Hannah, Saul, me. The lights dim and previews begin.
Saul leans over and whispers, “You didn’t know you were meeting us here, did you?”
In the cool dark of the theater, his voice rushes over my skin like a creek full of cattails. “Long story. It involves a misinterpreted winky face.”
“Oh, naturally.” He straightens up, but a second later, he leans over again. “You wouldn’t have come if you’d known?”
“I . . .” . . . have no idea what to say. “Don’t know.”
“Because I’m an Angert?”
I stifle a laugh, not wanting to draw attention to us. “No.” At least not entirely. Part of me feels guiltier than ever for being here after seeing, or imagining, Dad; another part wonders if this—disobeying him—is the way to trigger another moment like that again. I lift my backpack off the floor and sneak a swig from the flask.
“I drive you to drink,” Saul whispers.
“Well, yeah, but that’s not because you’re an Angert.”
“Is it because I chose this shitty movie?”
“You chose this?”
“I also wasn’t thrilled about coming tonight.” He lifts his feet up to rest on the back of the seat in front of us.
“Because I’m an O’Donnell?”
“Yes,” he pans. I narrow my eyes, but he doesn’t break into a smile for a full five seconds. “Because it’s a little pathetic to drop out of school, move home, and start hanging out with your younger cousin’s friends all the time—don’t you think?”
“Sorry, I have no idea what you just said,” I say. “I don’t speak Baby Boomer.”
“Hilarious, Junior.”
“Hey.”
His eyes snap to mine, and in the dark, they look almost black. “Huh?”
“I don’t think it’s pathetic,” I whisper. “I mean, I have abnormally high self-esteem, so take this for what it’s worth, but I don’t think it’s pathetic for you to hang out with us.”
He’s quiet for a second. “I never said you, by the way.”
“What?”
“I didn’t say it was pathetic to hang out with you.”
I feel myself smiling like an idiot, but the slow burn of the whiskey takes the edge off my embarrassment. “Shh. I think the worst movie of all time is starting.”
He trains his eyes on the screen. His Adam’s apple shifts as he swallows. I do everything I can to make his words stop replaying in my mind. It’s not enough.
I never said you, by the way. I didn’t say it was pathetic to hang out with you.
Eleven
“WHAT’D you think?” Hannah asks Saul as we stream out of the theater. I try to hang back with Nate, but he keeps pace alongside them, so basically I’m just walking behind the group.
“It was probably in the top three worst movies I’ve ever seen,” he answers. His eyes flash back to me, and he slows, as if to let me catch up.
I slow too, and he must notice, because he stops trying to lessen the gap between us and devotes his full attention to Hannah.
“God, it was horrible,” she says. She sounds relieved to get that opinion off her chest. She eyes Nate accusatorially. “Why the hell did we go see that?”
Nate shrugs sheepishly. “Sorry.”
“I chose it.” Saul itches his collarbone, and I’m 60 percent sure he catches me zoned out on him, remembering plowing into him in the House of Mirrors. “My fault. I have famously bad taste in movies.”
“I don’t believe that,” Hannah says. “When we were kids, you were always watching Hitchcock and Coppola and Stanley Kubrick. You were super into that stuff.”
Saul’s mouth opens a fraction of an inch, then closes. His ears turn pink, his chin and eyes dipping toward the floor. I’m watching him realize what’s going on here, that the neighbor girl who barely spoke to him was silently spending her childhood gathering these details.
“Yeah, you’re right. I was.” Saul looks back up, all signs of embarrassment wiped clean from his face. “I was super into that stuff back then, but . . . I don’t know, I’m kind of over art.”
Nate laughs and slaps Saul’s shoulder. “Totally, dude.”
Hannah looks dumbstruck. Understandable, since the phrase I’m kind of over art is both striking and dumb. “Hey,” Nate says, “we should all drive out to the falls tonight, take a night swim and rinse off the stink of that movie.”
“That sounds awesome,” Hannah recovers. “I’m in.”
“I have to get home,” Saul says, at the exact same time I say, “I can’t.”
Of course I’ve always been curious about the falls. They’re a Five Fingers point of pride, famous for their preternaturally warm water. But I’m already breaking one of my parents’ two rules, and in my house, going to the falls has always been treated as just as dangerous as walking through alleys alone in the dark or crossing a highway while wearing a blindfold.
“Bummer,” Nate says. “Next time.”
“No, you guys go on,” Saul says, tipping his head toward Nate and Hannah.
“Hannah and I rode together,” I point out.
“No problem,” Saul says. “I can take you home. I’m staying with my dad at our old cabin. It’s, like, two miles from your house. Nate can ride home with Hannah, right?”
“Hannah might not even want to go to the cliffs,” I say. “Why don’t you take her home and Nate can take me home?”
“In what universe does that make sense?” Nate laughs. “I didn’t even bring a car. Saul drove, and Han drove you.”
My mind scrambles for a way to rescue Hannah and finds nothing. I look toward her helplessly, but she’s focused on Nate. “Sure,” she says brightly. “I can take Nate home after the falls, and Saul can run June home. If that’s okay?”
She meets my gaze, and the apples of her cheeks turn Jack’s Tart pink.
Nate’s face lights up. “Okay,” he says. “Right on.”
“Okay,” Hannah repeats, face still reddening. I try to meet her eyes, to silently ask, Is it really okay? But she’s actively avoiding my gaze and focused instead on Nate.
Oh my God. A slim but distinct new possibility blooms in my mind. Maybe Hannah really is over Saul.
Nate and I were texting, she’d said casually when we arrived. She’d been texting Nate Baars.
“Okay,” Saul says, looking toward me for final approval. My whole body feels warm and fizzy, like my heart just started pumping ginger beer through my veins.
Or maybe I just want to believe Hannah’s into Nate. Maybe she’s being optimistic and kind because Hannah is optimistic and kind.
“What say you, Junior?” Nate says. “Okay or nay?”
“Okay,” I murmur.
“Okay!” Nate guffaws one last time and hooks an arm around Hannah’s neck. “We’re off to have an adventure while you two downers go home and journal.”
“Let me know you get home safe, Han?” I shout after them.
“Yeah.” She nods. And then they’re out the doors, and I’m sure I’ve made a mistake. I’m alone with Saul Angert.
“Ready?” Saul asks.
“You shouldn’t have done that.”
“What?”
“Forced Hannah into hanging out with Nate,” I fume.
“I didn’t force anyone to do anything. Seems like she wanted to go.”
“How was she supposed to say no, Saul?”
“That didn’t bother you when you were trying to force me to h
ang out with Hannah.”
“What?”
“‘You take Hannah, Saul,’” he imitates. “‘Nate will drive me home in the car he doesn’t have to the house he doesn’t live by!’”
“It’s not the same thing.”
His body shifts as he lets out a huff of laughter. “Oh? How’s that, Junior?”
“Nate likes Hannah. You told me that.”
“You’re going to make me say this, aren’t you?”
“Say what?” I demand.
“I can’t hang out alone with a teenage girl who’s been harboring a childhood crush on me for a decade. Is she even eighteen?”
“Okay, this just got weird,” I say, holding up my hands. “Do you have some kind of criminal record? I mean, should I be alone with you?”
He tips his head back and rubs the crease in his forehead. “It’s different with you.”
“That ‘not like other girls’ thing was a joke, Saul. I love a good salad.”
“It’s different because you’re not into me.”
“How would you know who’s into you and who’s not? It took you ten years to figure out Hannah was!”
“Fine, you could be into me,” he says, meeting my eyes. “But my cousin’s not trying to date you—you’re not going to put me in a weird situation.”
It’s like the voice is coming from someone else. Like someone else has taken over my body and I’m just a ghost floating outside it. “Again, how would you know?”
“Because your best friend likes me.”
“It was a childhood crush,” I say, lowering my voice. “And she’s over it. I believe her exact words were tragically beautiful stick-in-the-mud.”
His smile spreads slowly until his laugh crackles out like burning charcoal. “I still couldn’t take her home when she and I were the only two people who drove.”
Looking at him, I feel sort of like a burgeoning lightning storm staring down at the temptation of the Eiffel Tower, promising not to touch it. “Sorry,” I say.
He lifts one eyebrow. “Sorry?”
For having a crush on you.
For trying to make you take Hannah home.
For starting a fight in a space-themed movie theater.